[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Ms. MacPhee, we can leave Young Ferguson’s cellphone for you at a designated spot. That way you will not find yourself at the mercy of payphones.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. That’s aiding a fugitive. But there is something positive you can do. You and Alvin can get every piece of information possible about a group called the Settlers. You can search the computer. Alvin can head over to the library. They love him there.”

  “The Settlers? You mean that paramilitary outfit? Twenty years back? Females mostly. Bank robberies and bombs. Bad combo. They got a lot of coverage in the media, then they fell off the radar.”

  I should have known Mrs. P. would be in the loop. “See if you can find anything about their leader and also how they recruited their members. If any of them have been caught. Bundle the information together, and I’ll figure out later how to get my hands on it.”

  “On the double.”

  “Here’s the most important thing. You cannot trust Elaine Ekstein. If she contacts you, don’t tell her what you’re doing, and don’t believe a word she says.”

  “You mean Ms. Ekstein is a turncoat?”

  “I find it hard to believe, but it sure looks that way.”

  “And she may have some connection with this thuggery? How shocking.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Romanek picked up his private line. “Romanek.”

  “This line okay?” I said without saying who I was.

  “No problem.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, MacPhee. You do have a way of getting media attention. What are you trying to prove?”

  “Good question. Originally, I wanted to prove Laura Brown was murdered. Now I’m trying to find out who killed her and who killed these other women before they kill anyone else. And before I get tossed in jail.”

  “You don’t make it easy for a guy to build a credible defence.”

  “Hold on . . .”

  “This is not a caper movie with a happy ending. It’s for real, MacPhee.”

  “You know me, Sheldon. Do you seriously think I’m killing women?”

  “The stuff you’ve been pulling off, the original charge could be jaywalking, and they could still put you away in a federal institution.”

  “So you’re glad to represent me.”

  “I can’t counsel you to stay on the run. I have to do what’s in your best interests.”

  “I’m your client, you should follow my wishes.”

  “Where did you go to law school? Within the confines of the law, I can follow your wishes. You want me on your case, start taking advice.”

  “Any hope of a defence?”

  “Diminished responsibility. We’d go for that first.”

  “That means thirty days for psychiatric assessment right off the bat. And then more time for the hearing.”

  “Count yourself lucky.”

  “I’d be locked in the ROH.”

  “What difference does it make where you’re locked up?”

  “Good point.”

  “So you ready to deal?”

  “Deal? What do I have to deal with?”

  “This is Sheldon Romanek representing you, remember?”

  “How could I forget. No strip search. Under any circumstances.”

  “Your tame cop, Mombourquette, was clear about that. I’ll put it on the table.”

  “Not negotiable. It’s like a phobia.”

  “What’s that old line, MacPhee? Can’t do the time, don’t do the crime?”

  “Okay, I haven’t committed these crimes. This whole thing is a conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy. Great. Crazy talk like that will help our argument. It fits with the head injury, which is the best we got so far.”

  “Sarcasm is beneath your stature as the city’s most effective prosecution-buster. I’ll get back to you with details on the conspiracy thing. It has to do with a seventies-style urban terrorist plot.”

  “We’ll reserve your whacko ideas for when we really need them. In the meantime, I’ll call a press conference. Give them your demand. I’m calling it a basic human rights issue. Might get national attention. But you’ll have to surrender if they agree.”

  “You get some kind of guarantee we can trust, and I’ll consider it.”

  “Not consider. Do.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “MacPhee? Don’t hang up.”

  “Bunny?”

  “Wow, Camilla!”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Me and Tonya are rooting for you.”

  “Appreciated. Look, I’m sorry about your ladder. I hope it didn’t have your fingerprints all over it.”

  “Please. I am a pro. Hypothetically.”

  “I already owe you one, and now I need you to do me a favour.”

  “Anything.”

  “I need a book I left at my sister Donalda’s place. Just go and say you’re a concerned friend or something. Whatever.”

  “I’ll say I’m a grateful client. What’s the name of the book?”

  “One Man’s Justice by Thomas R. Berger, and I left it in the rec room, perhaps even under the sofa. She probably doesn’t know it’s there. The book is mine, so you are not committing a crime by picking it up.”

  “Anyway, I don’t even know you’re a fugitive.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to rely on that in court.”

  “Tonya says the same thing. She says it’s nothing against you personally, but I have to think about us now.”

  “Smart girl, Tonya.”

  “Even so, I told her that if it weren’t for you, I would have served federal time, and what kind of future would that have meant for our kids. That’s true, so she didn’t kick up too much of a fuss.”

  “Interesting reasoning, Bunny.”

  “Hang on. Tonya’s asking why don’t I just buy you a copy of the book?”

  “It has to be that particular copy. Tell Tonya I think she’s right about you staying out of trouble, and I’ll find another way to get it.”

  “That book is going to be by the dumpster in the side alley by Tonya’s hair salon, The Cutting Remarque.”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  “It’s a deal. How can I reach you?”

  “You can’t. My last borrowed cellphone died.”

  “Bummer. Anything else you need?”

  “Not unless you can get me a new identity or an answer to who is killing all these people.”

  I gave Bunny Donalda’s address and crossed my fingers for both of us.

  I needed to eat something. I had nothing in my stomach, and I thought that might be contributing to my lightheadedness. Somehow the place didn’t do much for my appetite. Might have been the sweat socks. I settled for a large bag of cheesies which had not previously been opened and a can of root beer. Add a few more crimes to my rap sheet.

  I selected a new wardrobe while I was at it: a Sens baseball cap, a Sens T-shirt, baggy jeans, pretty much the only clean clothes in the place. I passed on the footwear. There are limits to desperation. I was about to face the street again, when the door opened.

  A young man with a bad brush cut and a sleeveless sweatshirt said, “Hey.”

  “Just leaving,” I said.

  He raised his fists. “What are you doing here?”

  “Home inspection,” I said. “Landlord sent me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Sorry, my mistake.”

  He rammed one fist into the other. “You’re right there.”

  “Let’s all stay calm,” I said.

  “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that whack job that killed those women. You’re worth a lot of money. Cops will be grateful.”

  “They’ll also be impressed with your green thumb.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I can get rid of that.”

  “I don’t know. Sufficient quantity to consider you a grow-op.”

  He wrinkled his brow. This thinking stuff was obviously not as easy as it looked.
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  I said, “Tell you what. Don’t bother calling the cops, because you’ll only get arrested, and I will forget about what’s in your kitchen. Because if you get that cash, you won’t be eligible for legal aid, and you’ll have to waste it all paying your lawyer.”

  The furrows deepened.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a twenty. “Go get something to eat. When you come back, I’ll be gone and your secret will be safe with me.”

  I waited until he was out of sight but not long enough for him to figure out how to get the reward without jeopardizing the crop. I slipped into my new Sens gear, put on my trusty sunglasses and tried not to fall down the fire escape.

  Thirty-Six

  I gave Bunny time to take care of business before I grabbed a cab to Merivale Road. I got off a block from The Cutting Remarque and walked. I felt a bit stronger and more awake. My vision was less blurry, things were looking up, if you didn’t count the fact I was having memory problems. Five minutes later, I was behind the hair salon. I felt even better when I spotted three bags tucked discreetly out of sight beside the dumpster, looking like overflow garbage. The smallest bag contained One Man’s Justice, the largest one, proudly bearing the Wal-Mart name, had a black tank top with Pretty Baby on it in sequins, a pink pleather mini-skirt, a woman’s jean jacket, extra small, a pair of candy-pink sandals with three-inch heels and a blonde straight wig. A smaller Wal-Mart bag contained a transparent plastic makeup kit plus a mirror. The makeup was still in its packaging. The lipstick was candy pink. The first I’d ever owned. The look included a pair of neon-pink sunglasses. Bunny had even found another cellphone, a slightly clunky older model. I decided not to worry about who owned it. But the real thrill was the box of baby wipes. I used about twenty of them to get the dirt off my face, hands, knees, arms and feet. I could have used a shower, but those baby wipes were better than nothing.

  Bunny had come through big-time. I was guessing Tonya had put her stamp on the project too.

  I’d adapted to changing in the open. I ducked behind the dumpster and slid out of the baggy jeans and the Sens gear. I squeezed myself into the mini-skirt and the tank top. I could hardly breathe. I promised myself if I stayed out of jail, I’d eat fewer shawarmas. I put on the wig and did my best to adjust it. I added the sunglasses. There was no way I wanted to make eye contact with anyone.

  Since I always seemed to need a plan B, C and D, I shoved the jeans and Sens gear into the backpack. Next action: practice not snapping my ankles in those sandals. Except for my bulging backpack, which I didn’t plan to leave behind, I didn’t resemble any previous version of the dangerous fugitive, Camilla MacPhee.

  The thing I hadn’t realized about being a fugitive was how hard it is to make good decisions on the run. It’s not like you have a comfortable bed or even a bathroom to hide in until you get your act together. You can’t sleep properly, and you sure as hell don’t follow Canada’s Food Guide. Let me tell you, baby wipes only go so far to ensure personal hygiene. Toss the concussion into the mix, and was it any wonder I made a few questionable decisions?

  Everything I told myself sounded like the words of a defence lawyer. I thought they might trip off Romanek’s expensively forked tongue soon enough. Regardless of future legal implications, which I wasn’t keen to dwell on, I had a job to do. So far, I’d made a mess of it. And I was running out of options.

  It was time to visit the Westerlunds. I didn’t want to screw up there. I needed a safe, comfortable place to plan that visit. Food would help too, since I’d tossed my cookies at Jasmine’s many hours earlier. Plus, why not test the new outfit? I flagged a passing cab and sailed off to a small neighbourhood restaurant not far from the Westerlunds. As I got out, I spotted a bevy of brightly coloured balloons drifting lazily in the distance. The driver looked up too.

  “Great weekend for it, eh?” he said.

  “Should have been,” I said.

  Inside the restaurant, I slid into the most isolated booth and ignored the two guys giving me the eye. I kept the sunglasses on. I knew I couldn’t keep on racing around town like a cartoon character sporting idiotic outfits and thumbing my nose at the law. I was out of time and just about out of brain. My head and vision were getting worse. I needed medical attention. I was being foolish and stubborn. But I needed one more kick at the can. Then, if Romanek got that concession, I’d turn myself in. Once that happened, I wouldn’t be choosing from any six-page menu. I kept institutional food in mind as I ordered a deluxe cheeseburger with bacon and mushroom, fries with gravy, a salad, juice, coffee and blueberry pie. The server took a quick glance at the tank top I was spilling out of. She kept one eyebrow raised as she wrote my order. Like I cared. Maintaining a fashionable body image was the least of my troubles. I said, “And I’ll have ice cream on that pie. Two scoops, no, make that three.”

  As I waited, I examined One Man’s Justice, page by page. Sure enough, pages 149 and 150 were stuck together too. I used my fork to pry them apart. The paper tore a bit, but that was the least of my problems. Inside was a folded sheet of tissue paper with small, precise handwriting.

  I felt more irritated than exultant. Secret messages? Glue in books? Not like Laura hadn’t had a phone. Why this overly theatrical approach?

  Dear Camilla:

  If you have this letter, it’s because I am dead. My hope is that you will find and read this book and therefore see my message. I have much to regret. I refer specifically to my involvement with the Settlers movement. I have blood on my hands and guilt in my heart. I lack the courage to turn myself in. In recent months, the woman you knew as Frances Foxall attempted to justify our role to the public. For her foolish decision, she is now dead, as is the woman who called herself Sylvie Dumais. I believe that someone is picking off those of us who survived. Bianca Celestri is still alive. I believe you can trust her. Norine Thompson was one of us. I am not so sure about her. I read about your successful investigations and thought you would try to put things right. You’ll find information in my safety deposit box, which only you are authorized to open. Please deal with the documents accordingly. I hope they will help you to comprehend our actions and the blight they brought to our lives and the lives of others. I would like you to find my parents and put their minds at rest.

  Well, gee, thanks, Laura, wherever your soul is reposing, I appreciate your confidence and this bracing chance to live on the wrong side of the law while people try to kill me.

  If Laura had admitted her guilt and taken her lumps, most likely she and Chelsea would be alive, Bianca wouldn’t be on life support, and Jasmine wouldn’t be in danger. In my frame of mind, I didn’t care much what happened to Norine. I found nothing to confirm or dispel my gut instinct that either Joe or Kate Westerlund had played some vile role in the Settlers’ rampage.

  I examined the rest of the book with care. No more glued papers. No clue as to who might be wiping out the Settlers and why.

  The restaurant was soothing, homey and comfortable. I tried to focus my scattered thoughts. My vision was getting worse. I could hardly see in one eye. I foraged through my backpack for a pen and finally located one. But although I had a cool costume collection, I didn’t have a pad of paper. The napkins in the chrome dispenser would have to do.

  I took four of them. I started by sorting out whom I could count on and whom I couldn’t. I could count on my sisters, but only to make things worse, so they went on the napkin marked NOT. I included Conn McCracken with my sisters. Elaine definitely went on NOT. Ray Deveau had a warm heart, cold feet and apparently a short attention span. As a cop, even in Cape Breton, there was no chance he wouldn’t have heard about the Canada-wide warrant, yet he hadn’t tried to reach me. That made Ray a NOT kind of guy.

  Mombourquette would have to call in the cops, but he’d do his best to keep Jasmine safe, once I explained things. He’d help me afterwards, plus Gussie would be in good hands, so he got a separate napkin, labelled “Limited But Necessary”. I could count on Sheldon Romanek in cour
t and for any legal jousting before, after, and during. He joined Mombourquette on the “Limited” napkin. P.J. did too. Although his loyalty was always to the story, he’d stick to the right side of the law.

  That left Mrs. Parnell and Alvin. Bunny too. They went on the “Count On” napkin. I glanced around the restaurant. The ogling guys had departed, and no one was paying attention to me. My mountain of food arrived. But I had lost my appetite. I ate three fries, then sat staring at the rest. Finally, I pulled out Bunny’s phone, at least I was hoping it was Bunny’s phone. It had about fifty per cent charge left. I prayed it was enough to do the job. Alvin answered on his cellphone instantly.

  “Camilla, where are you? Are you all right? Can we . . . hang on, Violet wants to talk to you.”

  “Ms. MacPhee. These news reports are most distressing. Trumped up charges, obviously. We had no idea how to reach you. How may we assist? Shall we meet you in bail court? The hospital?”

  “Did you find out anything about the Settlers? Any photos?”

  “We have a few print-outs. No photos.”

  “Are you in the balloon?” Damn that cellphone static.

  “Yes, it’s the final evening. But we can get down and join you. Just say the word. It’s hard to hear you, there’s a lot of static.”

  “Can you get to the Vanier area in thirty minutes or so? River Road near Queen Margaret. I need witnesses. And there’s safety in numbers.”

  “You can count on us,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “You’re on the right napkin.” I gave them the Westerlunds’ address and filled them in on what to expect. I repeated everything so the static on the phone didn’t screw up my meaning. “You can’t miss me, I’m wearing a blonde wig.”

  “In fact, Ms. MacPhee, the location is excellent. Our balloon is heading south on the Rideau River. We can’t control direction, as I imagine you know, but we can control up and down. We’ll be there.”